The Stories We Tell Ourselves

I am generally a pretty quiet person. I like to listen, watch people, and figure out what seems logical before I jump into a discussion. As a result of my quietness, I've been misunderstood more times than I can count.

Some people assumed I was quietly judging them. Others interpreted my silence as anger or disagreement. And occasionally, people assumed that because I wasn't the first to speak, I must not understand what was being discussed.

Those moments stayed with me far longer than they probably should have. I'd replay conversations in my head wondering what I'd done wrong, frustrated that people had formed opinions about me without ever asking a single question.

Then one day it hit me. I don't like it when people make assumptions about me.

In fact, I hate it. Yet I catch myself making assumptions about other people more often than I'd like to admit.

Recently, I was on a call with a client as we made plans for an upcoming team development program. We agreed that we'd reconnect by the end of the week through email to get the ball rolling. A couple of days later, I sent her the information from my end along with a few questions.

Crickets.

"She's probably just busy," I told myself.

Three days passed.

Still nothing.

"This is a busy season. I'll give her a little more time."

Another five days went by.

Nothing.

By this point, my brain had far too much time to create a story.

The story I wrote was that she had found someone else to facilitate the training and was now ghosting me because she didn't want to tell me.

I replayed our conversation over and over, searching for something I might have said wrong. I questioned whether I had somehow damaged a relationship we'd built over years of working together.

Within two weeks, I'd gone through most of the stages of grief.

I drafted emails I'd never send—some gracious and understanding, others fueled by wounded pride. But underneath all of them was one painful thought:

Maybe I'm just not good enough.

Then, on Day 15, I received an email.

"Teri, I am SO sorry I haven't been in touch. I came down with appendicitis and ended up in the hospital because I needed surgery. I'll be back in the office next week. If you still want to move forward, let's schedule another call and nail down the details."

I cannot describe the relief I felt reading those words.

She wasn't ghosting me. She wasn't upset with me. She hadn't replaced me. She'd been in the hospital.

And then I couldn't help but laugh at myself.

How many times have I taught that asking questions is one of the keys to effective communication? How many times have I encouraged people to become curious instead of jumping to conclusions? Yet there I was...doing exactly what I tell other people not to do.

I had allowed my insecurities to write a story, and I believed it so completely that I never stopped to question whether it was actually true. That's when I realized something I'll probably spend the rest of my life remembering:

The hardest assumptions to recognize are the ones we don't realize we're making.

I've come to believe that many of our misunderstandings don't begin with what another person says or does. They begin with the stories we quietly write in our own minds.

Today, whenever I catch myself filling in the blanks, I try to pause before I write the ending.

Instead of asking, "What's wrong with them?" I try to ask, "What might I not know yet?"

Sometimes I'm still wrong. But I'm wrong less often than I used to be. I've also learned that understanding doesn't begin when someone else explains themselves.

It begins when I'm curious enough to question the story I've already written in my own mind.

People don't need fixing. They need understanding.

And understanding almost always begins by replacing assumptions with curiosity...including the assumptions we make ourselves.